Welcome to the World
by Sir Serendipity
Summary: 1805: As a new country, America faces threats from every side, but the greatest comes from the man he once knew as his brother. Despite his progress, England still treats him like a colony, and America finds that he must fight for his independence all over again. Historically accurate and based primarily on the War of 1812. Warnings inside.
1. Chapter 1 One Day

**A/N **So this is my first fanfiction and I have *no* idea what I'm doing XD If all goes well it'll be a four-shot, but I might not get that far. We'll see.

Title is shamelessly stolen from a Kevin Rudolf song of the same name.

Warnings: mild language, miniscule amounts of one-sided UKUS (i.e. England being a paedophile /shot). T rating is just to be safe; it's probably more of a K+.

**EDIT** Never thought I'd have to say this, but if you want to use my work in your own story, please ask me first and be sure to give me credit in a disclaimer somewhere ^^"

**EDIT 2** I saw someone comment quite negatively on the story of someone else who used the concept of world meetings, so let me just clear that up here. I am aware that the UN did not exist in the 18th and 19th centuries. "World meetings," as I use them, are not UN meetings. In the same way that Hetalia portrays countries by personifying them, I use world meetings as a way of "event-ifying" the world stage as a whole. Please pardon my artistic liberty.

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><p>Chapter 1<br>One Day

_January_ _1805_

I broke away from the raging torrent of countries flowing towards the conference room and turned off down an empty hallway to calm myself. This world conference would be the first I would attend as an independent country, and I wanted to make a good impression. England had taken me to a world conference or two when I was smaller, but only as a sort of accessory to his glory, and I knew everyone still thought of me like that. "England's colony." Finally, today, I had the opportunity to show them me as myself.

I adjusted my cravat and retied the ribbon that held my blonde hair back into a short ponytail. I didn't have enough money to waste it on fashion, but I could at least make an effort to look presentable.

_Presentable._ The word brought back a flood of memories: England on one knee buttoning my waistcoat, his eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he lectured me on the importance of appearance; England sighing and rolling his eyes heavenward as if asking, _Why me?_ every time I toddled into the house caked in mud; England smiling with approval as he circled me, examining that god-awful suit he had bought me. _You must look presentable, America, or else everyone will think I'm not taking good care of you._

I shook my head violently to disperse the memories. It was no use getting sentimental; he wasn't even like that anymore. That England, _my_ England, died that day in the rain.

I took a deep breath and stepped out into the main hallway again, letting myself be carried away to the conference room.

It was an absolutely enormous room, which stood to reason, since it had to hold all the countries in the world. Voices, speaking in hundreds of different languages and accents, echoed against the stone walls, the marble-tiled floor, and all the way up into the high vaulted ceiling. I slipped away from the crowd and leaned against the wall, scanning the sea of faces.

There weren't enough seats at the vast oak table for everyone; therefore, seats were reserved for only the richest, most powerful countries. Several were already sitting down, and England was among them, smoking a fragrant Indian cigar that sent a steady blue-grey thread of smoke lazily spiralling up and entangling itself in the crystal chandelier. I could hardly look at them—England, France, Spain, Netherlands, and the rest—in all their finery without feeling a pang of jealousy. One day I'd be able to sit up there with them instead of back here against the wall. One day I'd be a superpower instead of a collection of rebellious colonies that no one expected would add up to much. One day I could lean back in my chair and prop my feet up on the table like they were, smoking and making idle conversation and generally not giving a damn. But one day, when I would be as powerful as they were, I wouldn't walk all over people like they did.

I was snapped out of my daydream by a rough hand on my arm. It gripped me hard and began dragging me along the wall to the nearest corner. The exotic, earthy scent of Indian cigar gave away its owner's identity even before the heavily embroidered red overcoat did. I must have missed the moment when he stood up. I didn't even have a chance to regain my balance before England shoved me into the corner and pinned me there by my shoulders, his cold green eyes boring into me.

"What do you think you're doing here?" he hissed around his cigar before sparing one hand to remove it from his mouth and extinguish it on the wall over my right shoulder. Ash spilled onto my clothing and he flicked the cigar butt away before seizing my shoulder once again.

I set my jaw and stared evenly back at him, refusing to be intimidated. "This is for all the countries in the world, isn't it? I'm a country._"_

He shuddered visibly at the word, as if it physically pained him to hear it. "You don't need to be here. Get out."

"I can't leave if you're pinning me here."

He didn't care much for my logic. His eyes narrowed to luminescent green slits of fury and his hands tightened their grip on my shoulders. "The moment I release you, you shall walk to that door, leave this room, and never come back. Am I understood?"

_No!_ I was thinking. _This is my first chance to prove myself as a country, and I won't let you take it away!_ But on the other hand, I didn't like the look of that flintlock pistol in his belt. He could whip it out and shoot me right here in the corner, and no one would dare defy him.

No. He wouldn't. He _couldn't_. He'd proved that before. Somewhere under all the fancy clothes and the harsh words and the cold demeanour was the England I used to know.

_Give me liberty or give me death._

"I can't."

His expression was completely blank, which was scarier than if he had immediately burst into a fit of rage. "...What?"

"I can't walk away from this now. I want to grow up strong and"—already England was rolling his eyes, and I could tell he was thinking, _Not this again_—"and powerful and great. I want to be someone that people can look up to. I want to be a _hero._"

England was beginning to get that dangerous bored look in his eyes, tilting his head ever so slightly to one side as the corners of his mouth slowly curled up. I knew that look all too well, although I wasn't sure exactly what emotion it conveyed. It was something akin to anger, but not quite; his anger, despite being loud and often violent and spiked with a healthy dose of cursing, was far less frightening than this. This expression spoke, as clearly as if he had been speaking aloud: _You are mine, America, and I love you, and to make sure you don't forget it I shall put you through the most excruciating agony that I can dream up._

I had to think of something, fast.

I threw my dignity to the wind and hastily added, "Like you."

His dangerous smile immediately disappeared, replaced by a look of surprise with a tinge of disbelief. "I'm not..."

"Please, England. I left you because I wanted to grow up like you, but you wouldn't let me grow up at all." God, I couldn't listen to myself. How pathetic, spouting all these lies just to save my own skin. One day I'd be stronger than this. "Please."

His expression softened and he let go of one of my shoulders so that he could gently stroke my face with his gloved fingers. His touch made me shiver, but I tried to suppress it. "My mistake was not that I was not letting you grow up," he said, quietly and kindly. "It was that I tried to force you to grow up too soon. Wanting you to help me pay debts that I incurred fighting your wars... expecting you to take responsibility for your actions... you misunderstood it all. You thought I had changed into some tyrannical monster, but I was just treating you like an adult." His thick eyebrows lowered and the line of his mouth hardened. "You proved that you were unable or unwilling to handle the responsibilities of adulthood; therefore, I see no reason why you should be allowed to enjoy its benefits. You are still a child."

I swallowed hard and forced myself to meet his eyes. "That isn't for you to decide. I'm not yours anymore."

England smiled lovingly and leaned in, sliding his hands off my shoulders and down my arms so that he was pinning my wrists instead, one against the wall on either side of me, with the rest of my body trapped snugly in the corner. Still he kept coming closer, and I could feel my heartbeat quicken as I wondered what he was planning. The combined scent of tobacco, sea salt, opium, tea leaves and fine rum made my head spin. He gently touched his lips to my neck and I twitched, taken by surprise. He had never handled me like this before.

"You will always be mine," he whispered against my skin.

Far from being awed into submission, I felt simultaneously angered and sickened. Before I could think of what I was doing I twisted out of his grasp and pushed him away, then got the hell out of that corner. The few nearby countries who had been watching us with morbid interest hurriedly backed away and pretended that they hadn't seen anything.

"I'm no one's," I practically shouted at him, roughly scrubbing away the hot tears that were rising behind my eyes. "I'm mine and no one else's. One day I'm going to be strong. I'm going to be stronger than _you!_"

He was watching me lazily, pretending he didn't care, but I knew him well enough that I could see the anger flashing behind his eyes.

"You're not worth my time," he snarled at me, turning away. "I hope, for your sake, that you come to your senses," he added over a gold-braided epaulette before storming back to his seat, his scarlet coat billowing behind him. Countries parted around him like the Red Sea, only _he_ was the all-powerful pharaoh and I was the ragtag collection of former slaves with little more than hope and prayer on my side.


	2. Chapter 2  Someday

**A/N **No, I'm not this fast of a writer; I actually wrote the these first two chapters a couple days ago. Thanks for all the reviews, you speedy people who've reviewed Chapter 1 in the past, like, two hours. I appreciate it so much! ^^ Here's another sexy empire for your troubles.

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><p>Chapter 2<br>Someday

I made sure to keep a sizeable wall of countries between myself and that table after that encounter. My strategy made the specifics of the conference difficult to hear, but I didn't particularly care, as I doubted that anyone would listen to my opinions anyway. My goal had already been achieved: my very presence here, in a world conference, representing my _own _country, was enough to boost my confidence. I would save my plans for the improvement of the world for the next meeting.

I lounged against the wall and listened to the scraps of conversation that I could pick up over the general disorganisation. France in particular concerned me. I was good friends with France, but hearing about the atrocities he had committed during his revolution—styled after mine—had made me wary of him. His behaviour now did nothing to ease my worries. He was elegantly draped over his chair with one leg hooked over an armrest and his other knee propped against the table, and his blue eyes slid slyly across the assembled countries, as if sizing them up—or guillotining them in his mind. He hardly participated in the various debates at all.

England, who was standing and leaning vulture-like over the table, eventually noticed France's unusual silence. "Well, frog?" he snapped. "Have anything to add?"

France's eyes idly drifted over to him and dwelled there for a few moments. Finally France languidly unfolded himself from his chair and stood up, sighing and tossing a stray blonde curl out of his face. "I 'ave an announcement," he stated simply in his thick accent, smoothing his sky-blue silk breeches and tweaking his lacy cravat. When he was finished adjusting himself he clicked his buckled shoes together and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, smiling like a cat about to pounce on its prey. "I 'ave a new boss."

England snorted sarcastically. "Thank you for enlightening us. Now if that's—"

"I was not finished, mon ami," France interrupted smoothly. His smile widened and he began slowly walking, one graceful step at a time, all the while gazing out over the various countries. Every eye followed him as he gradually made his way towards the door. "Such a beautiful world..." I heard him murmur as he passed by me in a wave of rustling Chinese silk and rose-scented perfume. He flung the double doors open wide and turned once again to look lovingly at the world incarnate. "My new boss's name," he went on, raising his voice to address the now-silent masses, "is Napoleon Bonaparte. Because of 'im, I will soon be an empire." He bowed low to us and, straightening up, sighed happily. "Someday," he concluded, giving us one firm nod of approval, "someday soon, you will all be mine." With that he turned and walked away.


	3. Chapter 3  Everyday

**A/N** I was originally intending for all this to be in one scene since I really hate doing big time skips, but I couldn't resist the War of 1812. No idea where I'm going with this anymore. I know how I want to end, but I no longer know how to get there :/ Whatever, I'll make it work.

Once again, thank you so much for the reviews! ^-^

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><p>Chapter 3<br>Everyday

A brief, tense silence followed France's departure, and then the meeting room descended into chaos.

The expressions on some of the countries' faces—England and Prussia, in particular, looked as if they were going to rip someone's guts out, and even the usually-boisterous Spain was radiating fury—convinced me that the time had come to make a discreet exit. I slipped away as soon as I could and hastily returned home.

_June 1812_

I tried to keep out of the way of the world in general for the next several years. To be honest, I wasn't really sure what I thought of the whole mess. I wasn't too keen on the idea of France taking over anything, for obvious reasons. The alternative, though, was supporting England, which I disliked even more, if possible—especially since the bastard kept treating me like his colony no matter what I did. I'd walk into a Boston tavern and there he'd be, reclining casually on a table and downing ale like he owned the place. Things started disappearing, too, and by "things" I mean _big_ things—like entire ships, complete with cargo and crew. He then started blockading my trade with France on top of that, running my merchant fleet as if it were his own. The worst thing was, I couldn't do anything about it. Not only did I not have a war vessel to my name to pit against the largest navy in the world, but I had defeated him once in a war, and he'd die before allowing me to do so again.

The eighth or ninth time I looked out over the ships in Boston Harbour to see the telltale Union Jack snapping in the wind I decided that enough was enough. Empire or no empire, I would _not_ let him take advantage of me like this.

"What the hell do you want?" I shouted, bursting into the tavern that I knew to be his favourite. Sure enough, England was lounging on a table and holding a tankard up to the light, examining it critically as if by doing so he would somehow be able to see through the pewter. He didn't even flinch at my dramatic entrance, but instead turned his tankard a little to inspect it from a different angle. I repeated my inquiry, a little louder this time, and he sighed.

"I'm doing this for you, you know," he said, swigging his ale. He swished it around in his mouth once or twice, contemplated the flavour, and made an expression of disgust before swallowing it with some difficulty. "I know you like France now, but trust me, you don't want him to take over the world."

"Of _course_ I don't! Do you think I'm that thick?"

He gave me a slightly amused expression, as if to say, _Do you really want to know the answer to that?_

"Well I'm not," I went on, answering myself before he could interject a sarcastic remark. "But I don't see how stealing from me will prevent the expansion of France's empire. Speaking of which, aren't you supposed to be fighting him in Europe instead of over here taking a seasoning?"

He had to think about that one. Already the haze of drunkenness was fogging over his piercing green eyes, although how a man could get drunk from half a pint of weak ale I would never understand.

"Y' should've declared war on him by now," he mumbled at last, and finished off the remaining liquid in his tankard. A British sailor instantly materialised from a back room and refilled it for him.

"Why should I? It's a European problem, nothing to do with me."

England sighed and flopped back onto the table, inadvertently sloshing some of his ale onto the floor as he did so. "Are y' really that naïve? It's everything to do with you. Declare war on him."

I knew the pattern of our arguments all too well. He had just turned his original prompt into a direct command, so now it was my turn to turn his words against him and ridicule him. "Is this what it sounds like? Is the mighty British Empire asking for help?"

Now came the startled jerk, the horrified expression, a moment of spluttering, and then a vehement and colourful denial. England followed his script beautifully, down to the very way his face flushed and his hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. I didn't bother listening to him; I'd heard it all a thousand times before. I focused instead on the problem of getting him to leave me alone. An alliance with him was out of the question: we couldn't even be in the same room for five minutes without somehow ending up at each other's throats. An alliance with France was also out of the question, because then I'd have most of the world turned against me. Remaining neutral, although ideal, meant putting up with being England's doormat so as not to provoke him, which I feared would end up with re-adoption into his ever-expanding empire. There was really only one option open to me.

I smiled with satisfaction at my brilliantly logical reasoning. "I'm declaring war on you."

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><p><strong>Another AN **"Taking a seasoning" is oldspeak for getting drunk, in case that wasn't obvious. I would've put an asterisk in, but they're annoying.


	4. Chapter 4  Yesterday

**A/N **Finally! Sorry for the huge delay; school just started up. I wrote most of this on my iPod in my few spare moments . I figured out what I'm going to do with it though! There shall be one more chapter, but it might take me a while to write since I have no free time.

This part is based on a real historical event, which I shall not disclose because it would be a bit of a spoiler. If you look up the War of 1812 it's fairly obvious though.

Thank you all so much for the nice reviews! *^_^*

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><p>Chapter 4<br>Yesterday

_December 1814_

My bare feet slapped on creaking wood as I dashed downstairs, snatching my coat off the banister as I passed it. No time for shoes; I'd just have to endure the cold. I caught the doorknob on my way out and slammed the door behind me in a cacophony of rattling boards and squealing hinges.

I fairly flew down the street, barrelling past bleary-eyed men on their way to work and a few primly dressed women out for an early morning stroll. I kept my eyes trained on the horizon, and sure enough, as the buildings began thinning out at the edge of town, I could see the masts of England's flagship, black against the watery half-risen sun, interrupting the monochromatic haze of the sky. I grit my teeth and kept running, sprinting down side streets and either leaping over or swerving around any and all obstacles in my way. Finally, finally I reached the shore, and my feet fought to find purchase on gravelly sand. Only then did I slow down, my lungs burning and my heart pounding so vigourously that I could feel its pulse in my fingertips.

England was there, which didn't surprise me—my informants had told me as much. What did surprise me was that he was alone. He was wading through the shallow grey waves, looking tired and bedraggled and towing behind him the jolly-boat from which he had just disembarked. After dragging it well up onto the sand, he sighed and ran one hand through his uncharacteristically greasy hair, his eyes reluctantly flicking up to meet mine.

We stared at each other for quite some time, neither of us knowing exactly how to address the other. It had been a war fought by proxy for the most part—between armies and fleets, generals and captains, rather than between countries. At times I felt as if I were fighting Canada and a dozen or so nations of England's native allies rather than England himself. Yet there we were, the causes of the entire conflict, and I surprised myself by discovering that I harboured no animosity towards him. Standing there ankle-deep in water, wearing simple clothes that were dirty and sweaty from the voyage, looking exhausted and rather miserable, he wasn't the England I knew from my childhood, but he certainly wasn't the British Empire either. I was grateful for that, at least.

He obviously had no intention of doing me any immediate harm, so I sat down hard in the sand to finish catching my breath, hugging my knees to my chest for warmth. His eyes followed me down and continued watching me, and still he remained silent. At length he took a few steps forward onto dry sand, sighed again, and lifted his gaze to the town behind me.

"You burned down Canada's parliament," he said at last.

"It was nothing personal. We're at war, you know. Or have you been gone so long that you've forgotten?"

His emotionless expression twisted itself into a sneer. "If you really want me to turn the full force of my army and navy against you, I'd be more than happy to oblige. Finally I'd be rid of the obnoxious little would-be country who consistently overestimates his own importance. As it is, I've only been committing the occasional few troops I can spare to this insignificant skirmish with you. If you think this is war, then you don't know what war is."

"Nor do I want to. That's why I won't get involved in wars I don't need to be in," I said proudly.

"And you expect to become a great nation?"

I nodded.

"You're full of shit."

I snapped my head up and opened my mouth to retaliate but he cut me off before I could speak.

"You can't become great solely through the power of your moral conscience. You can value freedom and liberty and peace and love and butterflies all you want to, but trust me, without blood, sweat and tears you're never going to be great."

"I still don't see how joining in every pointless war I come to helps me beco—"

"Because they make you _stronger_!" England shouted at me unexpectedly, and I cringed away from his forcefulness. "In this world you can't pull yourself up. You have to climb over mounds of the dead. You have to _fight_!"

"I don't want to be that kind of great," I said, my voice coming out louder and shakier than I intended. "I don't want an empire. I want to be..." Awkwardly, I realised that I didn't know how to put my ambition into words. I floundered for a moment and England quirked an eyebrow at me expectantly, radiating irritation from every fibre of his being. "I..." What _did_ I want? I wanted... I wanted...

_All I want is my freedom._

Even after all that fighting and emotional turmoil, he still hadn't released me. Maybe he was in denial or maybe it was just habit, but either way, he was using me just like he always had, and I refused to tolerate it any more.

_I'm no longer a child, nor your little brother._

So why was he still treating me like one? I had done my best to make my independence as painless as possible; didn't he realise that trying to get me back would only result in more hurting for us both?

_From now on, consider me independent._

But he hadn't. I was still a colony in his eyes, a particularly difficult colony with a pesky habit of declaring independence. I'd never be able to achieve anything with the British Empire treading on me every time I turned around.

"I want..." I swallowed hard and closed my eyes for a brief moment to compose myself. "...I want you to let me go."

I kept my eyes trained on his boots, not wanting to watch his reaction—a mistake. I was half expecting him to start crying and I wasn't sure if I could endure seeing that again, but carelessly failed to anticipate his true response.

He brandished a pistol and aimed it at my head.

For some reason my mind took far longer than it should've to process the situation. I stared down into the obscure abyss of the gun's octagonal barrel and wondered what he was doing. My eyes travelled up the length of iron to his face, and sure enough, tears were leaving clean shining trails through the dirt and grime on his skin. But his eyes, which I expected to be filled with hatred, were brimming instead with pain.

"I should have done this years ago," he whispered, and his eyebrows lowered in that way I knew signified that at this point there was no negotiation.

He released the safety catch with a metallic _click._

I knew that this war, seemingly impassive on both sides, had gone far deeper than either of us expected. It wasn't the culmination of the relatively minor conflict we'd had a few years prior, nor was it even the result of my war of independence. It was a continuation of the war we'd always been embroiled in. From the Virginia marshes to the streets of Boston, from a .75 calibre Brown Bess musket that day in the rain to the .62 flintlock officer's pistol he had trained on me now, from the tears I cried when he left to the tears he cried when I did, we'd always been fighting, and I felt certain we always would be.

But did any of it really matter?

He could shoot me now or he could let me go, either way I'd survive and we'd meet again. We'd clash and we'd argue; we'd get upset and we'd fight. Everything would stay the same. We'd never really like each other, but we would certainly never hate each other either. So why did we try so hard to act like we did?

"England—" I began, starting to get to my feet.

I was cut off by the echoing crack of a gunshot and a bullet blazing its way through my heart.


	5. Chapter 5 Today

**A/N** I'm soooo soooorryyyyyy! I've been insanely busy ||(_ _)|| This chapter has actually been typed up for months except for the last few paragraphs, because I didn't know how to end it ^^" But here it is at last! For ye who asked, there isn't an official pairing for this fanfic, but it can be interpreted as USUK (or UKUS) if you are so inclined. But, that said, my blatantly pairingy sequel is now up, entitled "Forever," so if you ship these two and enjoyed WTTW I encourage you to check it out.

The last chapter, in case you couldn't tell, represented the burning of Washington in the War of 1812.

I wrote this chapter in American English, and it was difficult. Appreciate it. :|

Anyhoo, thanks so much for those of you who followed/faved/reviewed! It means a lot to me. Please enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 5<br>Today

I sit up in bed with a start, sweat pouring off my body and soaking into the sheets that are hopelessly tangled about my legs. My lungs heave, desperate for air, and inhale a generous helping of spit, which I try to hack up for like half an hour before flopping back onto my pillows, which are just as sweaty and gross as the rest of the bedclothes. I run my hand through my hair and it audibly peels away from my soaked forehead. Nasty.

Why the hell had _that _particular memory decided to surface? I'd just about convinced myself that I kicked England's ass into next Thursday in that war, and then my stupid brain had to go and unravel all my careful propaganda.

Wait… that was in 1814. This year's 1914. It's been exactly a hundred years.

_Happy anniversary of getting your capital burnt down. Now get out of bed before you drown in your own sweat. _With a few wild kicks I manage to free myself from the damp mess of blankets and sheets and expose my body to some fresh air, flailing one arm to try to locate my nightstand.

Ah, there it is.

_Chink._

...and there goes Texas.

Damn it, today's just not my day. I groan and let my arm fall along the side of the bed, feeling along the floor with my fingers for my glasses while squinting at my alarm clock and trying to make sense of the blurry symbols obscured by darkness. I should make one that has numbers that, like, light up... yeah... and it would just say the time instead of messing with all those stick things and stuff. I get up at like the crack of dawn, and it's just way too early to try to decode those stupid sticks.

I finally recover my glasses and turn on the light. It's 10:42. Like I said, folks, crack of dawn.

I roll out of bed and somehow drag myself across the hall to take a shower. Thinking a little more clearly and smelling like hero, I emerge a few minutes later and mosey on downstairs in my boxers to rustle up some grub.

England is in my kitchen.

Can you say _awkward_?

I actually don't really mind being caught in my boxers. Don't care at all. The awkward thing is that I haven't really spoken to England in like a century and even that was just before he freaking shot me in the heart, not to mention that he's just kind of _in my kitchen_. Like, making tea with my kettle and everything.

"Dude, you want something?" I ask, with a little more hostility in my voice than I originally intended. He turns to look at me, and immediately I can see that he's changed somehow. It's kind of hard to describe. For one thing, he's wearing this sort of dull green uniform that somehow manages to be made entirely of straight lines even though people obviously aren't rectangular. It's such a frugal, no-nonsense outfit, which looks really weird on England. The last I checked, he was still decked out in fancy expensive stuff with gold braid and epic buttons and all this shiny crap, yet here he is with a piece of clothing that's just... clothing. It's not England surrounded by the splendor of the British Empire. It's just England in clothes. Period.

Secondly, he's not making any kind of _Eww, America_ expression like he has been for the past century or so. There no disappointment or resentment or sorrow or anger. It's more like an _Oh_ expression—y'know, the kind of expression you'd make if someone just walked into the room, which I just did, so that's probably why he's making it. Then his gaze travels a little lower and he blushes and turns back to his tea, with that little eyebrow twitch and a faint clearing of the throat that together mean _I'm just going to pretend I didn't see that_ in Victorianese.

"Actually, yes, I do," he says, stirring his tea as if it were the most fascinating thing in the world. "I have a… favor to ask of you." His words are clipped and his voice chilly, I assume because he hates having to ask me for anything.

"Yeah?" I yawn and lean on a counter, tipping my head sideways to let a trickle of shower water run out of my ear.

"It's about Germany."

I arch an eyebrow and wait for him to explain. He's still staring intently down into his tea like it's a crystal ball and he can see the secrets of the universe in his own murky reflection. Or something.

"And… Austria. And Hungary. And Belgium. And Russia. And Fr—"

"Europe," I finish for him, and he nods slightly, although the corners of his mouth turn down a little more in annoyance at having been interrupted.

"I don't even understand the situation entirely," he continues, tapping his teaspoon delicately on the rim of his cup before slipping the silverware into the sink with a _clank._ "But, well, to get straight to the point, we're all at war now. France, Russia, Belgium, my empire, and our allies against Germany, Austria, Hungary and the Ottoman Empire."

"Fun. That all?"

He glances up at me incredulously. "Is that all you have to say?"

"Yeah. You know I don't care what you guys do over there. It's none of my business."

He sighs and turns to face me, those oh-so-familiar eyes narrowed in annoyance and glaring at me poisonously. "This war is unlike any other. This war is not a formality— a set of rules we follow to systematically kill each other until we again put on the façade of civility and compose a treaty. This war is a fight to the death, and I do not simply refer to a vague 'many' people, I refer to every last man."

"War is war," I say, unnerved but unyielding. "It's still none of my business."

"You don't understand." England sighs again, not meeting my eyes, and when he next speaks his voice is strangely soft and deep, and so dreamily impassive that it makes me shiver for no apparent reason. "A nation will die in this war."

That gets my attention. I stare at him wide-eyed, my voice a hoarse whisper as I choke out, "Who?"

"I don't know." He's still speaking with that quiet, emotionless tone and it's starting to freak me out a little. He leaves his tea and starts slowly pacing the perimeter of my kitchen, trailing his fingers over the countertops. "France is a likely candidate, as is Italy; they're both weaklings. Austria and Hungary may go down together. Perhaps Germany himself, or Prussia." At this point he stops, slides a knife out of the knife block on the counter and gently touches his finger to its tip. I open my mouth to warn him that it's sharper than he thinks, but before I can form the words he applies the slightest amount of pressure and drives the point of the knife into his skin. "Maybe even me," he concludes in little more than a whisper, thoughtfully watching a crimson droplet swell out of the shallow wound and roll down his finger.

Had he been speaking normally I would shoot off a snide remark about how the world would be better off without him, but his tone is so detached, so resigned, that my blood runs cold and for once I find myself speechless. What he said could be true: with the recent flood of military technology, all the nations are itching to try out their new toys; and a massive war would provide the perfect playground for them to happily blow each other to pieces.

What if England were to be caught in the crossfire?

I try to push back my hatred for him and think of a world without him. To my surprise, there isn't all that much hatred to push back. He certainly hasn't been affectionate to me since the Revolution, but really, what am I expecting? Isn't that what I wanted?

…Isn't it?

"Okay," I say. "Fine. I'll talk to my boss about sending you supplies or something. But I'm _not_ going to get too involved unless I really need to."

"Splendid." He smiles the kind of self-satisfied smirk that became so familiar to me during the early years of the British Empire, and I want to kick myself. As if he could've changed all that much.

I shoot him my best death glare. "You're still using me. After all those wars and all that conflict you're still treating me like an underling."

England laughs, and for the first time since the seventeenth century he sounds genuinely amused instead of mocking. "Not at all," he says with a shrug, tossing the knife into the sink and retrieving his tea. "I _asked _for your help this time, did I not?"

"No," I say flatly. "You didn't." But he has a point even so. Before, he would've simply taken what he needed regardless of my feelings on the matter. At least now he deems me worthy of manipulation.

"In fact, I'm helping you by allowing you to help me. It's about time you got involved in global politics. You can't expect anyone to take you seriously when you don't even act like a proper nation."

"Dude—" I begin, cutting in as he takes a sip of tea; but he holds up one finger to indicate that he's not finished.

"You still don't think I'm taking you seriously?" he asks, quirking half a dozen eyebrows or so, and I nod vehemently. "Very well then, I'll ask you properly. Will you, the United States of America, consent to assist Us, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, in defeating Our enemies in the forthcoming Great War?"

Let me tell you, boys and girls, shit gets real when England breaks out the royal we.

"Uh…" I falter, not wanting to say no and disrupt our pleasantly apathetic relationship, but simultaneously not wanting to give in and have much of Europe against me.

Then I realize that he'd called me the United States of America.

Jawdrop.

"Good. I knew you'd comply, old boy." He leaves his empty teacup on the counter and pats me amiably on the shoulder on his way to the front door. My mind only registers it vaguely, as if it were happening to someone else while I watch. _He called me the USA. He acknowledged that I'm a country. My _own_ country._

England's almost out the door by the time I gather my wits and trip over myself to show him out. His hand pauses on the doorknob and he turns around to face me, finds himself staring at my chest, and redirects his eyes upwards to focus on my face with an expression that I would call affectionate pride if I didn't know him better.

"You've matured admirably, if a little unintelligently," he says, and sweet Jesus is that _warmth_ in his voice? "I'll raise you to be a noble country yet." He nods approvingly and opens the door, then hesitates and turns his head towards me again. "America?"

"Yeah?"

He smiles the way he used to, the way I know no one else has ever seen him smile. "Welcome to the world."

With that he walks away towards his future. Our future.


End file.
